This is a story submitted to NOW magazine during the time of their revanillaization. It didn't make it into ohmagazine (too looong), so we're pasting it here. Blogs are easy.
Addicted to beautiful boys
I used to collect beautiful boys. My most memorable prize: I was 21 and at the Royal City concert; they were playing in the uni grad lounge. I saw a guy across the room. In that moment, my 10-month-old relationship with my boyfriend, Adrian, imploded like a red giant: I fell in love at first sight with the guy across the room. Royal City played on (in my editorialized memory they are playing the sickly sweet "Baby Let Your Heart Out"). I stared at the guy across the room, chanting silently in my head: over here, over here, see me, see me! I had never seen a boy that striking before: he was pale with hair and eyes like tar, cheekbones that could slice ice.
I am being sentimental, I am being creative writing 101 about this, but I can only describe Daniel in those terms. He was to be written poetry about. He was to be looked at, admired. I wanted to own him. I wanted to wear him. I wanted him accompany me to places, parties (Oh, this? This is my Daniel. Yeah, it’s an original design). I wanted him to listen to me, say my name with trembling voice. Yet, I didn’t necessarily want to sleep with him or have a relationship with him. I owned him more if I didn’t – I too remained an ideal.
Daniel fell in love with me. At night, we snuck out together and drank our way through the city, photocopied our hands entwined together at Kinko’s, stupid stuff. We set shit on fire. We cried on the back stairs of the apartment I shared with Adrian. Daniel and I kissed and broke apart dramatically. But I would not leave Adrian. He too was beautiful with arctic-blue eyes and mad smoky curls. And I was greedy. I wanted all of my beautiful men. Daniel was to remain untouched, perfect, unlike Adrian whom I sampled and broke too many times already. I called Daniel my muse. He wanted more or none of it. I humoured him: Okay, maybe I’ll just marry you in two years. In two years? He would ask with a serious face. He was getting sick of my games.
One night, in a dark alley – where else? – I rolled my eyes and rolled my skirt down, bent over and told him to fine, fuck me. He couldn’t get fully hard at first– he said he was too nervous, oh, I love you so much, he said. He said my name over and over with a trembling voice. I urged him to hurry the fuck up, finish, before Adrian finds us. It was ruined anyway. I wanted Daniel to stay just beautiful.
I am a recovering beautiful-boy addict. Although I will still, occasionally, go to even the most boring event just because I may run into a beautiful boy there. In kindergarten, I built my wooden-block castle right beside Norbert’s, the cutest boy in our group. In elementary school I held hands in a ritual of "going with" Luke, a boy everyone said was cute like Kevin from The Wonder Years. As a teenager I would go to parties and quickly scan the room. I would find him, the pretty one. Sometimes I would have to lower my standards but as long as there was at least one decent boy, the party was okay and I would have a purpose: I would bring out my artillery of charms and try to shoot him down.
After Daniel, I met another handsome devil, Max, and used to drag him around to show him off like a purse to my new friends in Toronto. Max wanted to kiss me; he wanted to have dinners, dates. I was still with Adrian. Recently, my friend Jane said, dreamily, wow, ever since I’ve known you, you always have had all these beautiful men around you. I said, God, but I wasted two years with Adrian just because of his face. I wasted his two years.
I hear men are lookers. I hear it’s rarely just about looking – there is always the thought of fucking. I am a looker too. But I don’t necessarily want to fuck beautiful men. I want them to want me. I want their returned attention to validate my looks because I am insecure.
My karma is kind of cute: my current partner suffers from the same addiction I do. He’s got eyes like searchlights. Beaming every beautiful girl that walks by. Sometimes, I get nervous. I’m nervous my own flutter and glitter will run out, that I won’t be enough but – at the same time – I say triumphantly, masochistically to my addict side: good, you deserve it.
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